My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Dawn broke just as baying hounds routed ducks from the rushes of the riverbank. As the birds rose into the air, the long-winged gerfalcon swooped to strike its prey. Bran’s pulse quickened.

“Huzzah!” King Edward shouted. The falconer lured the hawk back to the king’s gloved hand while a pack of retrievers hurled themselves into the cold water after the fallen mallard.

Bran wheeled his stallion in a circle. “Well done, sire.”

Edward covered the bird’s head with a tiny, belled leather hood. “A good hunt is the mark of a good handler,” he said.

The falconer preened himself like one of his charges. It seemed the king was feeling magnanimous this morning. Bran studied his mentor and sometimes friend. Imposing, very much with the deportment of his noble rank, Edward was tall, even taller than Bran. Fair-skinned and blue-eyed with a fine head of short-cropped, golden hair, Edward’s finely chiseled features showed strength of purpose. Only the slight droop of one eyelid bespoke his humanity.

Quick to anger, often vindictive, Edward of England could be a loyal friend to one who served him well. Bran had depended upon on that loyalty since, as a fourteen-year-old lad, he left his English foster family and went into royal service, forsaking forever his Welsh homeland.

Most recently, Bran had served Edward in France where, in the guise of seeking his fortune, he had spied for England and acted, at times, as envoy for his adopted sovereign. He’d gone to Gascony to recruit crossbowmen for the army and recently, because he spoke the language, gathered information for Edward in Wales during the conquest of the rebellious princes.

Bran’s jaw tightened with anticipation. The mere pressure of his hand on the reins caused his spirited stallion to snort and twirl. He sat deep in the saddle and relaxed, settling the horse.

“I shall buy that black steed from you!” Edward said and kicked his horse into a gallop.

Caught off guard, Bran spurred the steed under question and raced after his liege. Like yesterday, the October day was crisp and cool. High wisps of clouds raked across the bright blue sky. Bran’s spirits rose. He followed Edward into the wood, dodging the stately growth of larch and ash.

He sensed something of import about to happen. God willing. Mayhap today was the day he’d worked and waited for. Bran’s spirit soared.

Edward paused in a small clearing to allow him to catch up. Other retainers stayed their distance. Bran’s hand tightened once more on his reins, and he halted before the mighty King of England .

Edward’s cheeks were flushed from the ride, and his eyes lit from exertion. He carried the hawk on his outstretched wrist, handling his own horse with one hand.

“What say you, Welshman? Do you sell me that black destrier?”

“Nay, sire.” Bran answered, knowing when to deny a request. “The stallion is not for sale. A poor knight, such as I, may not be able to buy another worthy steed.”

“Ha! Poor indeed. More than likely, you won that animal beneath you.” Edward lowered his voice and winked. “You are rich in reputation, as well as horseflesh. Would that I had such luck in the tourney fields of France and with the ladies!”

“I fear, sire, you exaggerate. Ladies are frightened of me. My reputation as the black knight precedes me.”

Edward laughed. “You’ve cultivated your reputation well, as I requested.” He grew serious and leveled a direct gaze. “Sir Bran, you have served me faithfully as the black knight.”

Bran lowered his eyes in affirmation of the king’s words. Hope surging through his veins, he waited patiently astride his restive horse.

Edward shook his head in mock dismay. “Mayhap keeping that noisy raven is carrying the ruse too far.”

“A nice touch, think you not?” Bran looked up and grinned. “I have come to respect those winged scavengers.”

“Just as I have respected your work and loyalty.” Edward’s words sounded carefully measured. “’Tis time I rewarded your service.”

Bran bowed his head once more. “You do me honor.”

“I cannot offer you what I know you have always wanted—your father’s keep, the fortress of Dinas Bran.” He paused before adding, “Because of your birth. ”

Bran tensed and now fastened his gaze on Edward’s. “You know me well, sire.”

“I gave Castell Dinas Bran and the lordship of Yale and Bromfield to John de Warenne.”

“The Earl of Surrey,” Bran murmured in acknowledgment, hoping to hide his disappointment. “Of course.”

Edward nodded. “And to Roger Mortimer, I gave your father’s lands south of Llangollen.”

The king’s words were like ashes left from a fire, gray and gritty. He had feared this. Over the years, Bran had learned Edward believed bastards should never share inheritance.

Bitter bile rose in Bran’s throat. For once, he wished for the Welsh custom that divided the land equally among all sons. His father had died at English hands and so had his two half-brothers. Although illegitimate, he was Madog Vychan’s son. Was he fool to think Edward would deal differently with him even after his years of faithful service?

“I shall reward you another way,” Edward said with a sly wink. “I have several marriages to arrange, wards of the state. One lady brings a wealthy, border castle where I need a strong hand. The other one offers a bigger dowry but a smaller property near Shrewsbury.”

Fighting his disappointment, Bran mentally gathered himself as if he approached a knight in battle. The king was speaking of valuable property and a hand in marriage. Dinas Bran, his father’s castle, was lost to him. Just like everything of import had been lost to him—his mother who’d died when he was young, his grandmother, and the randy nobleman he never knew, the prince who’d spread his fertile seed throughout the Welsh countryside.

His ultimate goal thwarted, Bran still might have a wife, property, and eventually children. He could settle down. Become respectable. Shed the reputation of the black knight. He was a man used to compromise, after all.

“One is old Rothmore’s daughter, Lady Catrin Fitzalan.” Edward measured him thoughtfully. “Quite an independent miss. In fact, you rode against her brother yesterday.”

“Fitzalan?” Bran returned the king’s look with a calmness he didn’t feel.

He shook his head, rejecting the king’s suggestion. The lady would not bring him the peace he sought. Now was the time for practicality. Unlike yesterday on the path with the unknown woman he’d met, he could no longer afford a simple dalliance. “Rumor links me to the death of her father and brother,” Bran said quietly.

“Ah, a bad business.” Edward dropped the reins and rubbed his chin. “’Tis fortunate for you, Sir Raven, that I know you were in Wales on my business when the elder Fitzalan was slain. Yesterday’s actions are another matter. I know you well, but others don’t. That is why I have ordered an investigation.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Bran fisted his gloved hand, knowing himself fortunate indeed. Yet his luck could change as quickly as the king’s trust in him.

Edward shrugged. “Verily, ’tis the de Belleme heiress for you then, a more demure lady, and with her hand, you receive her father’s castle at Northbridge where there is no male heir.”

A castle of his own. A wife. Bran lifted his eyes to the king. “Sire, I cannot begin to thank you.”

“Nor I, Welshman. I remember that stormy eve in Acre.”

Their gazes connected, the powerful English king and the lowly knight, bound together by sacrifice and loyalty and a strange respect.

Catrin’s anger festered all night, a welcome replacement for the grief and shock of her brother’s cruel and unexpected death. She pushed her sorrow aside, preferring to allow the hot fires of wrath consume her. Nothing else mattered. Setting her jaw, Catrin approached the great hall with Olwen by her side.

Compact, portable, and transient, the royal court never stayed long in one place, the king always needing to see and be seen by his subjects. For the duration of Parliament, the royal household had set up housekeeping at Acton Burnell, the manor home of Chancellor Robert Burnell, the king’s closest confidante.

“I am unsure of this,” Olwen murmured, dragging her steps.

Catrin felt Olwen tense. Her cousin had always possessed a timid disposition. In her years fostering at Olwen’s home, Catrin had been the prod, encouraging her fair and beautiful cousin to stretch herself beyond her limits. But her efforts had been futile. ’Twas not in Olwen’s disposition to be other than sweet, serene, and pious.

Catrin took her cousin’s chilled hand. “What is wrong?”

“I am afraid.”

“I know, but you agreed with me earlier,” Catrin said. “You even bade me to replace my blood-stained gown with your second one so that I wouldn’t disgrace myself.”

“Isadora forbade us to approach the king,” Olwen reminded, short of breath .

“But she failed to mention the queen,” Catrin said coyly.

“Why do you constantly provoke your stepmother, Catrin? She means you no harm.”

Catrin remained inflexible. “I have always disliked her.”

“’Tis a habit, certainly,” Olwen reflected, “stemming from your disagreements during childhood. Something you can correct, with God’s grace.”

Catrin swallowed her impatience and dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. She wanted nothing to do with God’s grace. God had no time for her. Hadn’t the actions of the previous day proven that?

She stopped and turned to Olwen. “I must concentrate on giving my brother a proper burial, Olwen. I need your support—for the love you bore Gilbert.”

Olwen measured her with a steady gaze. “Aye,” she said with a sigh. “And for the sake of his soul.”

Relief flushed through Catrin. She squeezed Olwen’s hand and gave it a tug.

Together they quickened their steps, pushing their way into the crowded great hall where they were jostled by a myriad of royal servants who prepared for the midday meal.

Catrin paused at the chaotic sight, memory of her year at court flooding her. The hectic traveling and lack of privacy, confined as she’d been with the queen’s women, had played havoc with her freedom-loving spirit. All the while, she’d longed for the wild Marcher lands of her home. After her father’s death, she’d been allowed to withdraw.

Steeling herself against the bitterness of her brother’s death and the inevitable changes in her life to come, Catrin pressed Olwen’s hand and signaled with the other to catch Hamon’s attention. The sergeant of the chamber approached, sweeping them a flourishing bow, a huge grin on his boyish face.

“Ah, the two most beautiful women in the kingdom return to court,” he said, merriment twinkling in his shrewd eyes. No wonder he was Queen Eleanor’s favorite.

“You mustn’t let the queen overhear your flattery, Hamon,” Catrin warned, able to play his courtly game even with a heavy heart. “She may remove your slovenly head.”

“’Tis no joking matter,” he parried, gripping his throat with a fine hand. “For what I hear of the Welsh Prince Daffyd’s coming demise, I fear he would welcome a simple beheading.”

Although she’d heard Edward had devised a new kind of grisly death—something called hanging, drawing and quartering—Catrin hadn’t come to talk politics. “I care not about the traitor. I hope to see the queen.”

Hamon cocked his head and waited.

Catrin caught the meaning behind his hesitation. “You know I have nothing to bribe you with,” she said with a smile. “Just a swift kick in your backside if you do not arrange my audience.”

Olwen’s grip on her hand tightened at her audacity. After all, this was the queen’s man, and one had to be careful.

“Always persuasive.” He grinned, obviously not offended. “And always a favorite of Her Grace, or else I should never contemplate such a request.”

“You were ever the gentleman, Hamon.” Catrin dipped her eyelashes, feigning the guise of a perfectly demure lady.

“And you were always the charlatan. Wait here. I will see what I can do.”

’Twas not long before Hamon ushered them through the crowded hall. He pushed aside a tapestry at the end of the room and showed them into the presence of Eleanor of Castile, wife of King Edward.

Catrin and Olwen entered and bobbed a curtsey at the door. Then they crossed a short distance and dropped once more to their right knees.

Queen Eleanor and her closest ladies were much as Catrin remembered from her time with them. Sitting in a private solar, dim except for the faint glow from several beeswax candles, they were quiet but for a matron’s steady reciting of Eleanor’s beloved Arthurian romances. As was her custom at every resting place, the queen had ordered the rushes swept clean and replaced with luxurious carpets from her warm homeland of Castile.

The Queen motioned them forward. “Ah, Catrin.” Eleanor extended a hand. The familiar, light scent of roses wafted in the air.

“Your Grace.” Catrin kept her gaze respectfully on her sovereign as she approached. “Thank you for allowing us an audience. Do you remember my cousin, Lady Olwen?”

“The Northbridge heiress.” Eleanor acknowledged with a nod. “I have oft commented on how much the two of you resemble each other.”

Catrin met the queen’s smile and smiled herself. The queen’s high forehead, straight brow, and firm chin were framed by her barbette, delineating her exotic foreign beauty. A gold net crespine encrusted with jewels hid her black hair. As courteous as she was beautiful, ’twas no wonder Eleanor had captivated her royal lord for so many years.

“I am so sorry for your recent loss. Trouble has come twice to the family of Rothmore in such a short time.” Eleanor folded her slim fingers over Catrin’s hand. “Please sit, my ladies.”

Catrin and Olwen sat on small stools at the feet of the queen. “We have come to ask permission to remove Gilbert’s body to Clun, to allow him to be given a proper, Christian burial,” Catrin stated quickly, her voice hushed.

“Of course, and I shall provide prayers for his soul.”

So simple, the granting of the boon. Catrin’s spirits soared with relief. Now to leave Acton Burnell before Isadora discovered her defiance.

“Such a tragedy.” The queen shook her head. “Your brother was unwise to take up Sir Bran ap Madog’s challenge.”

Catrin nodded. What more could she do but concede the truth? “I believe he held a grudge against yon knight.”

“Aye,” Olwen spoke up quickly. “Gilbert wanted to avenge the death of his father.”

“So I have heard the rumors.” Eleanor shook her head again. “Yet, there are other, honest ways to seek justice—for example, he could have requested a royal ruling.”

“My brother was rash.” Catrin felt the need to somehow smooth over Gilbert’s growing ill repute. By removing the protection on his blade, he was thought to have fought unfairly in the game. “He was impertinent and quick to anger.”

“Revenge. Hatred. All are sins against God,” Eleanor said softly. “We need to pray for his soul.”

Olwen began to cry. Catrin eyed her uneasily. Having gained her wish, the audience was fast slipping out of Catrin’s control.

“My brother was murdered, your grace, soon after the tourney.” She drew a deep breath, surprised at her growing bravery. “I want justice for him.” She lifted her chin, unwilling to reveal she knew about a torn piece of scarf dropped beside Gilbert’s body. “I would know more about this black knight, this King’s Raven.”

“Court gossip is oft counterfeit.” Eleanor’s sympathetic gaze settled on Catrin’s face, and she shook her head in warning. “Yet Edward tells me Sir Bran was in Wales at the time of your father’s death acting as a spy. He serves the king, not the Welsh princes, and so would have no reason to kill your father, a tenant of the crown.”

Eleanor reached out and clasped Catrin’s hand. “My lady, rest assured, if Sir Bran had wanted to kill your brother, he would have certainly done so during the tourney. ’Twould be like calling off a gyrfalcon from its kill if he desired to avenge the dishonor done to him on the field.”

“I do not understand why everyone defends this knight,” Catrin said with anger.

Eleanor held Catrin with her steady regard. “I understand you are grieving. Yet, know this. Bran ap Madog is a knight of the household, trained by Edward during the crusade, knighted on the battlefield, a loyal diplomat, and a faithful servant to my lord. In Acre, he drew the poison from Edward’s wound, saving his life. My lord trusts him completely.”

Catrin faltered under Eleanor’s scrutiny. The intense ache of loss was replaced once more by anger as sharp as shards of winter ice. This was the truth of her position. No one would take up her cause against this knight. No one believed the rumors, and now the king gave his Welsh ally an alibi for her father’s death. She could very well put herself and Olwen at risk if she continued to question his honor or revealed the evidence of the pieces of red fabric in her possession.

Justice would be served, but left to her own devices, like so much in her life had been left up to her own wiles, her strength. She accepted it, much as she accepted her ultimate marriage for dynastic reasons.

“I understand,” Catrin replied, dropping her gaze.

“Still yourself against the fires of hatred, my lady. Let my Edward seek justice for your brother.”

Catrin’s eyes widened at the queen’s keen insight into her feigned submission.

“You have other matters to consider.” The queen’s blue-black eyes sparkled. “Edward plans to find you a husband.”

Catrin knew Eleanor thought about their many disputes on the subject of arranged marriage. Disagreements Catrin had always lost. Eleanor had thought her father foolish for not settling the matter of his daughter’s future.

“My fate was written in the stars yesterday with the death of my brother,” Catrin conceded quietly.

Eleanor patted Catrin’s hand again, and then withdrew it, placing her palm on the flat of her stomach. “I see myself in you. Although I was married to Edward when I was ten, and I knew my duty to my father, my country, and my God, I was frightened at first.”

The queen’s eyes grew misty. Catrin held her breath at the honor of her lady’s confidence.

“I was attracted to my lord immediately and quickly grew to love him, as you will grow to love the husband Edward chooses for you.” Eleanor lowered her gaze to her pale hand. “And just like me, you will find yourself blessed by your lord’s children, both living and dead. ”

“Your grace?” Catrin caught Eleanor’s meaning. The queen was again with child.

Eleanor looked up and smiled. “This will be my sixteenth confinement.”

“Oh, God bless you,” Olwen exclaimed.

A wave of humility washed over Catrin. She took Eleanor’s now outstretched hand and kissed it, her throat closing with emotion. The love between king and queen was stuff of romances. Catrin longed for such love but held no illusion that any arranged for her would be successful. Dreams had a way of not coming true.

“Go, my dears,” Eleanor said, “and remember to open your heart to your future husbands. Be good helpmates to them.” She extended her regards to Olwen. “I shall see that Edward chooses wisely for both of you.”

“Thank you, your grace. We can ask for nothing more.” Catrin climbed to her feet and helped Olwen to hers. They withdrew with a bow, leaving the presence of the most gracious woman in Edward’s kingdom.